Ride: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  I take them from her. They’re well broken-in and soft.

  “When in Rome,” Sasha says.

  “Now all I need is a pair of cutoff jean shorts that show half my butt and a rhinestone cowboy hat,” I say.

  “Tell me what you really think about rodeo groupies,” she teases.

  I scrunch my nose, and she grins.

  The flight to Vegas is totally uneventful, except for the fact that I want to kill everyone in both airports for walking at a snail’s pace. I find Bruce, and we share a taxi to the Wynn, where Sports Weekly is putting us up. I left New York at 5 a.m., so with the change in time zones, it’s still only mid-morning by the time we’re heading to the arena for the bull drawing.

  This is way, way bigger than Pioneer Days. I’d expected that, but as soon as we’re within a couple blocks of the sports arena, it’s wall-to-wall hats and buckles. Inside, the place is stuffed with people selling belt buckles and wall plaques with funny sayings and hats, and we make our way through the crowd to the press room, where they’re drawing bulls again.

  The list of cowboys is about a hundred long, and Jackson is near the end. This time, they’ve got the names projected on a screen, and instead of drawing slips of paper one by one, someone hits a button and a bull’s name pops up next to a cowboy’s name.

  I know Jackson’s in the room somewhere, but from where I’m standing in the back I can’t find him in the sea of seated people. I feel like the air is vibrating, or maybe it’s just me feeling like a thirteen-year-old with a crazy crush on the cute boy in her gym class.

  This rodeo has the same basic structure as Pioneer Days, just way bigger: they ride three days in a row and the winner has the highest average score. So each cowboy gets three bulls picked, one on each night of the rodeo. I don’t recognize the first two bulls that Jackson gets assigned, but someone else gets Crash Junction.

  The announcer starts going down the list for the third day. He names cowboy after cowboy, and nobody pulls Crash Junction. Jackson’s only three from the end of the list, and as they close in on his name, I cross my fingers.

  It makes me nervous as hell to think of Jackson riding Crash again. Crash still hasn’t been ridden. He’s the only undefeated bull to ever make it this far in a season.

  But I remember Jackson’s face after Crash threw him. That determined, driven, fierce look in his eyes. There’s no doubt what Jackson wants.

  The announcer calls the cowboy in the list ahead of Jackson. He doesn’t get Crash Junction. I hold my breath: there are only four names left. That’s a twenty-five percent chance.

  I cross my fingers.

  “Jackson Cody,” the announcer says.

  Someone hits the button, and a moment later, a bull’s name pops up next to his

  CRASH JUNCTION, it says.

  A corner of the room erupts in loud cheers, whistles, stomping, and the general carrying-on that only cowboys are capable of. I press my lips together so I don’t smile, even as my heart twists in my chest.

  The minute that the draw ends, everyone stands. Bruce and I push our way through the throng toward where Jackson was sitting. When we get there, he’s surrounded by a ring of people with notebooks and cameras. There’s even someone with a video camera and a woman asking him questions.

  It’s more than I expected. As much as I thought about this, I didn’t realize how in-demand he was going to be, or how much media was going to be here.

  Maybe this is all a bad idea, I think. Maybe I should just stay away from him in Vegas, if he’s going to be under this much scrutiny.

  I know it’ll never happen. I’ve got lots of self-control, but not that much.

  We hang back. Other people are asking Jackson questions and he’s answering them, laughing, grinning, looking perfectly cocky and in control and relaxed. I watch him voraciously and try to act normal, but I think my bones are turning to lava just being this close to him.

  I want to shout. I want to scream I’m right here, but I don’t. Bruce writes things down in his notebook. I snap a few pictures and try to breathe normally, just watching him. I feel like a teenage girl at a rock concert or something. I don’t know what to do with my hands, or how to stand, or where to look.

  Jackson scans the knot of reporters again, and it’s obvious he’s barely listening to what they’re asking him, smiling and nodding.

  Finally, he looks at me. We lock eyes, and I squeeze my hand into a fist, forcing myself not to laugh with the giddiness that’s bubbling up through me.

  Slowly, Jackson grins.

  Stop it, I think, but I don’t want him to stop. For that second, we’re the only two people in this room, and nothing else matters. Not the group of reporters, not all the other cowboys, not the rules we set up. Just us.

  Then someone else gets his attention and the moment’s broken. I look down at my camera, trying desperately not to smile, but there’s something warm and fuzzy and completely ecstatic in the pit of my stomach, and it won’t quit jumping up and down.

  It takes a long time, but the crowd around Jackson finally thins, and that’s when we walk up to him.

  “Bruce,” Bruce says, holding out his hand. “Sports Weekly.”

  “Good to see you again,” Jackson says, shaking his hand.

  “Mae,” I say, holding out my hand as well.

  He takes it. We shake, and then he holds on just a beat longer than necessary, his hazel eyes sparking. I feel like his hand is electric. I don’t want to let go, but I do.

  “I remember,” he says.

  I almost laugh.

  “Good to see you two again,” he says.

  The three of us chat for a few minutes, about Crash Junction, about maybe winning three rodeo world championships in a row, about how rodeo is suddenly turning a corner into mainstream.

  Finally, Bruce glances across the room.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” he says. “I need to ask him something.”

  He walks away, and suddenly Jackson and I are alone together. Other people are milling around, but they’re not within earshot.

  “I hope you remember my name,” I tease.

  He crosses his arms in front of himself and grins.

  “No breaking rules,” he says.

  “Which rule am I breaking?”

  “No flirting,” he says. His eyes sparkle dangerously.

  “That rule is clearly open to interpretation,” I say. “I just meant I hope you remember my name because I took a lot of photos of you.”

  “Sure,” he says. “Not because I’ve been—”

  “Someone’s behind you,” I mutter.

  He stops and glances over his shoulder casually. Two middle-aged men are sauntering by.

  “This is harder than I thought,” I say, watching the two men.

  “That’s not the only thing,” Jackson says.

  I just shoot him a look.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  His cocky, charming grin clearly says I’m not sorry.

  Across the room, Bruce shakes someone’s hand and starts to walk back.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Jackson says.

  I give him an exasperated look.

  “Not that,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Not right now, anyway.”

  He clears his throat and pulls something out of his pocket.

  “You should have my business card,” he says a little too loudly, and hands me a small white rectangle that says Jackson Cody, Professional Bull Rider.

  As I take it, I realize there’s something underneath it, a hard plastic card that says Mandalay Bay on one side.

  “Room twenty-oh-eight,” he says.

  “Tonight?” I ask, sliding it into my pocket. My heart is racing like my blood is high-octane fuel, every nerve surging.

  “I’d say right now if I thought we could get away with it,” he says.

  “I wish we could,” I say.

  It’s taking everything I’ve got not to jump on him right here, but I don’t. A moment lat
er Bruce is next to us again and even though on the inside I’m shaking and on fire and also experiencing some kind of sexual tornado-earthquake, Bruce and I make professional chitchat for another moment.

  Then we shake Jackson’s hand again and leave.

  The rodeo itself feels endless. I hate that Jackson’s so close to the end, because the entire time I’m keyed up and nervous for him.

  Finally he’s up. This is slowly becoming a pattern: he jumps on the bull, situates himself, looks over at me. The chute opens and he rides, and I think my heart stops for the full eight seconds but he makes it and jumps off.

  The crowd is deafening, and for a moment, Jackson stands there, grinning. He waves at the stands, then picks up his hat and puts it on his head. I get a great shot of him, facing me, people holding up signs and screaming their lungs out on the bleachers behind him.

  Then he looks right at me and touches the brim of his hat, and I can practically feel his eyes burn right through me. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the hours between now and tonight, but I don’t think there’s any alternative.

  Jackson pulls himself back over the gate and he’s gone. The crowd takes a while to die down, and then they announce the next cowboy.

  As he’s getting onto his bull, Bruce looks over at me. I look back. Neither of us says anything.

  I get dinner with Bruce, along with a few other reporters and photographers. There’s even someone from National Geographic, and I’m briefly star struck.

  “You did that photo essay on nightclub culture in Siberia,” I say. “I really liked it!”

  That’s the best you can think of?

  “Thank you,” she says. She’s got shoulder-length brown hair, streaked with gray, and down-to-earth manner that seems almost alien in Las Vegas. “I really enjoyed your Sports Weekly spread.”

  I fumble my way through the conversation. By the end, I’ve exchanged information with most of the people there. As Bruce and I are heading back to our hotel, I realize: I just networked.

  “Got any plans for tonight?” he asks while we’re on the elevator.

  “I’m bushed, so I’m just gonna turn in,” I say.

  Did you just say bushed? I think. Come on, Lula-Mae.

  He nods.

  “These early flights are killer,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

  I’m not actually bushed. I don’t turn in. Instead, I wait around for another twenty minutes and then sneak down the back stairs. I walk two blocks and get a taxi at a different hotel and take it to the Mandalay Bay. I check that I’ve got Jackson’s key about twenty times, and by the time I’m walking through the lobby I’m practically a warm puddle.

  When I walk up to twenty-oh-eight, I’m strangely nervous. He could have another reporter in there, or some of his friends, or worst of all, another girl. Deep down I know he wouldn’t — he gave me his room key, for crying out loud — but we’ve never actually talked about whether we’re exclusive or not, and sometimes my stupid brain won’t quit.

  I knock. No answer. I knock louder, but there’s still nothing. It’s almost nine, so he’s probably just not back yet.

  I unlock the door and enter. The suite is totally dark as I step inside. After a moment, my eyes adjust and I can see pretty well. It’s not huge, just a living room and a bedroom with a massive bed, but it’s nice. The windows look out over the strip, and from here I can see the light at the top of the Luxor and the Eiffel Tower at Paris.

  I turn on a few lights and walk through. The bed is made, but Jackson’s got his stuff lightly strewn around: jeans draped over a chair, shirt balled up on the seat, his protective vest on the desk, a hat on the table. I feel a little nosy being there with his stuff and not him, but I’m also curious. For all the time we’ve sort of spent together, I’ve never been in a place where he lived, or even where he was staying.

  It’s strangely nice to be near his stuff, kind of warm and oddly comforting. Like a giant weirdo, I pick up his shirt and smell it.

  It smells like the last time I kissed him, outside the bucking chute at Pioneer Days. I toss it back onto the chair and walk into the other room. My panties are probably soaked through already with pure anticipation, and I try to calm myself down as I flop into an overstuffed leather chair.

  Then I look down at myself and get an idea.

  Why not? I think.

  I strip down to my cowboy boots and thong. Almost naked, I go back into the bedroom, grab the hat off the table, and put it on. I turn out most of the lights, get back in the chair, and hope Jackson hurries up.

  I’m there for another twenty minutes. Just when I’m wondering if I should put my shirt back on or something, I hear the sound of the door being unlocked.

  I hold my breath. The stupid, anxious part of my brain says what if you’re coming on too strong, but I swat it down.

  The door closes.

  “Hello?” Jackson says.

  My toes curl inside my boots, and nerves tighten my chest.

  “In here,” I call.

  “The dinner went late,” he says. “I kept trying to leave, but — holy fucking shit, Lula-Mae.”

  He stops in the doorway and stares. I kick my feet up.

  “Howdy,” I say, suddenly not nervous anymore.

  Jackson grins slowly and tosses his jacket onto the couch. He’s just looking at me like he’s memorizing my body, his eyes slowly raking over me. There’s already a bulge in his pants, and I am throbbing with excitement.

  “I found your room,” I say.

  “You made yourself right at home,” he says, stopping five feet away from where I’m practically writhing in this chair.

  “I had a key,” I tease. “I thought I’d get comfortable.”

  He’s still just staring, a deeply hungry look in his eyes.

  “Are you gonna come over here or what?” I ask, leaning my head against the arm rest.

  “I’m just appreciating,” he says.

  “Appreciate closer,” I say. “You’ve done enough looking lately.”

  “But now I get to look while you’re here,” he says. “Did you know you’re even sexier when you’re naked in my hotel room?”

  I move a little, arching my back and stretching my legs. I feel like I’m in a pinup shoot or something, but my brain is not in control right now. I just want him to come over here, for the love of god.

  “I need you to come touch me,” I say.

  Jackson’s eyes flash dangerously and his grin falters.

  “Say it again,” he says, his voice dropping.

  “Get over here and touch me, Jackson,” I whisper. That’s all it takes.

  He closes the distance, and then he’s leaning over me, his body against mine. He crushes his mouth against mine, insistent with need, and I wrap my legs around him and arch my back.

  Jackson groans and I bite his lip as he pulls back. His hand tightens around my hip, his fingers digging into me, and he laughs.

  “I missed that,” he says.

  “Getting bitten?” I ask.

  “I missed getting bitten,” he says, and kisses me again, hard, the bulge in his pants pressing deliciously against me. “I missed the noises you make. I missed your body under mine.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I kiss him again. I’ve got one hand in his hair, pressing his face to mine and I slide the other down his chest and find the hard length in his jeans, my body running on pure desire. I get a growl from deep in his chest so I squeeze.

  “I missed that,” he growls.

  Then his lips are on my neck, on my collarbone and then he’s biting one nipple just hard enough to make me shout. Jackson slides off the chair as my hands find the buttons on his shirt and fumble with them.

  Now he’s on his knees and I’m half off the chair, his mouth on one nipple as he pulls his own shirt off. I watch, panting for breath, and run one hand over his hard, muscled chest, his abs, his scar and his lucky tattoo.

  He pulls my panties off with one yank and reaches down, slidi
ng two fingers around my clit so tightly it makes my toes curl, and I fall off the chair a little more.

  “Oh my god,” I gasp. He teases my nipple with his tongue and moves his fingers down, nudging at my entrance as I arch my back.

  “I love how wet you are,” he says. “You were just in here, thinking about fucking me, weren’t you?”

  “What else was I going to think about?” I say.

  His fingers move over my clit again and my whole body jerks with the sheer, impossible pleasure of it.

  “This is all I’ve thought about for a week,” I say.

  “Just a week?” he says.

  Now I’m on the floor too, Jackson kneeling between my legs. I grab his belt and pull, and he takes the hint and gets his pants off, kicking them halfway across the room, his cock springing out at full mast. I grab it and he groans as I stroke him.

  “Better than your hand?” I ask.

  He slides his hands under my ass and squeezes. Then he lifts me, the muscles in his arms bulging. I wrap my legs around his waist, my back against the seat of the chair.

  “Do you know how hard it was today to see you and do nothing?” I murmur. “You can’t look at me like that in public, Jackson.”

  “Like what?” he teases.

  “You can’t eye-fuck me while everyone’s staring at you in the arena,” I say. “I was dangerously close to jumping in and tearing your clothes off.”

  “Sounds okay to me,” he says.

  “Your other fans might stone me to death.”

  “They’d have to get through me first,” he says.

  I move my hips and the tip of his cock nudges against my clit, pleasure quaking through me. Jackson puts his lips against my ear.

  “I got tested,” he says. “I’m clean, but I brought the paperwork if you want to see it.”

  “You think I’m gonna stop this to look at paperwork?” I ask.

  “Well, I was hoping not,” he says. He takes a deep breath and runs his lips along my jaw.

  I think I might explode with desire and anticipation.

  “I meant to make this romantic,” he says. “I was gonna put on some Barry White and undress you real slow and seduce you right for once.”